


something like solace

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, also gary being an absolute prince of a guy, p angsty guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Gary picks Stevie up after the Costa Rica game, and beggars can't be choosers.Two men find something like solace in each other, after a draw that's worse than a loss.





	something like solace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



The final whistle blows, and Stevie squats down, sitting on his haunches, one hand on the grass. It’s soft under his fingers, and the air is warm and humid.  
  


The Costa Rican players are shouting and jumping and Stevie can’t even breathe right. The air is too thick.

  
There’s an ache in his chest, and he’s seized with the sudden irrational desire to part his ribs and rip out his heart and toss it to the England fans, angry and shouting.

  
_Here, take this, it’s all I have left to fucking give you._

  
There’s a hand at his shoulder, and then one under his arm, and Stevie lets himself be lifted into a hug.

  
It’s a coach, of course. Nobody else cares about the captain. Even now, he’s failing his country. Showing weakness. England was meant to be tough, wasn’t it? A cold, rainy Wednesday night at Stoke and whatever else it was that English people said to make themselves feel better.

  
He wraps his arms around the warm form in front of him.

  
“S’alright, Stevie,” comes Gary Neville’s Bury accent.

  
Honestly, it’s a testament to how fucking exhausted Stevie is and how wrecked he must look, that Gary fucking _Neville_ is comforting him.

  
He’s not one to question kindness. Not right now. He just doesn’t have the capacity for it.

  
“Come on, Stevie, let’s get you home,” Gary murmurs into his shoulders. He’s shorter than Stevie. Or he used to be. Maybe it’s that Stevie can’t make himself stand up straight, maybe it’s that his shoulders are suddenly a hundred pounds heavier, but he feels smaller than Gary now.

  
It’s in the miles, he supposes, more than the years or anything else.

  
Gary supports him, wraps an arm around his back and shields him from reporters and photographers as best he can as he leads him into the tunnel.

  
The locker room is quiet. Not silent. Thirty men in a room together were never silent, really. They didn’t have it in them. But it was quiet, and conversations were hushed, and Stevie notes idly that he should say something, that he should get up and give them some sort of pep talk.

  
He doesn’t. He walks over to his locker, yanks off his boots, strips off his kit, and walks into the showers, ass-naked. It’s just such a tired dance, he knows the steps, and at some point, he ran out of things to give his younger, softer teammates. Heartbreak was hard, no question. But it was their first, or their second.

  
Stevie must’ve been the only man on earth who was fucking _stupid_ enough to stay. It was the definition of insanity, isn’t that what they said? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

  
He hears Frank talking to the others, voice low and soothing, and tiredly, Stevie wonders how he does it, wonders if maybe _he_ could’ve done it if he hadn’t come into this tournament with his heart already shredded and stomped on and mangled beyond belief.

  
“It’s not you,” comes a quiet voice. Gary’s standing there, watching him shower, and maybe in a different situation Stevie would’ve made a joke about it. Something about how Gary was obsessed with him, or had secretly wanted to see him naked. Something that he’d deliver with a glint in his eye and a cheeky grin, something that Jamie would laugh at, voice high and pure the way it got when he giggled.

  
This isn’t that situation. He isn’t that man right now. Honestly? He won’t be that man again for a long while.

  
“I’m the common factor,” he says quietly, turning around and letting the water rinse out the shampoo in his hair, not even bothering to close his eyes. He wants the shampoo to get into his eyes, to make them burn and water. He wants to be at home with Jamie, turning off the telly and drinking beers morosely like they’d done in 2002. “Doesn’t take a genius to see it. One broken part fucks up the machine.”

  
Gary sighs, but doesn’t say anything. He stays, though, leaning gingerly against the tiled wall, well out of range of the water.

  
“I’m not going to do anything rash,” Stevie drawls, though as soon as he says it, the thought crosses his mind, quicker than lightning. It won’t come back to that again. He’ll wish for a different life, maybe, but he always stops there, however glum he is.

  
“I know.” It’s that same voice, that same voice that had screamed at him on derby days and humped the Kop and picked on his best mate and talked shit about him on telly. That same voice, and yet _not_. It’s quiet and gentle and soft and _fuck,_ it’s exactly what Stevie needs.

  
Jamie wouldn’t need to say anything at all, of course.

  
Then again, Jamie’s not _here_ , is he.

  
“It’s not your fault,” Gary says again, lingering until Stevie gets out of the shower and handing him a towel to wrap around his hips—he’d forgotten, somehow, in the midst of all the numbness.

  
Stevie inclines his head just slightly in thanks, and goes back to his locker to get dressed.

  
He pulls on his suit, leaving off the tie because at some point he can’t find it in himself to do it, can’t find it in his thick, clumsy-feeling fingers to be deft and wrap the useless piece of silk round his neck and tie it in a fancy knot just because some twat sometime had decided that it was what rich people did. Giant fucking arrows pointing to a man’s cock in some sick attempt to manipulate women into wanting to fuck them.

  
Gary walks back and kneels in front of him. He puts a single finger under Stevie’s chin and lifts it up so their eyes meet, and Stevie’s about to open his mouth, to ask what the _fuck_ is happening, but then Gary pulls the tie into his hands and unfolds Stevie’s collar so he can put it in place before tying a perfect knot and fixing his collar so he’s presentable again.

  
Stevie’s mouth twitches, knowing that he should say something and yet desperate not to, but by the time he works up the energy to open his mouth, Gary’s back on his feet and moving away and their teammates aren’t looking at them. All except for Frank, who has a strange expression on his face, sympathetic and knowing and maybe slightly suspicious. He makes unflinching eye contact with Stevie, who just shrugs.

  
They get up and walk into the bus as a group, Stevie walking just between the coaching staff and the players, between Gary and Frank. They get up into the bus, and it’s subtle, but Gary wraps his fingers around Stevie’s wrist, and Stevie’s silent as he sits next to him. The aisle seat. The window feels too exposed to the outside. He’d have taken the middle if there was a group of three, so he wasn’t as exposed to his teammates’ prying eyes, but beggars can’t be choosers, and if there’s one thing Stevie knows, it’s that he’s a fucking beggar right now.

  
The bus starts the ninety-minute drive back to the hotel, and the lights dim. Most of the lads close their eyes, faking sleep if they can’t make it come.

 

Gary wraps an arm around Stevie’s shoulder and pulls him in so he can rest his head on his shoulder, and Stevie doesn’t fight it. He closes his eyes and maybe God doesn’t actually hate him, because he manages to sleep, somehow, without the nightmares, even, that had plagued him ever since Chelsea.

 

“Stevie.” Gary’s voice is soft, and the bus is emptying as the rest of the team piles out and heads into the hotel. “Stevie, you need to wake up now, we’re back, we need to get off the bus.”

 

Stevie nods and stands up, blinking slowly and just barely conscious enough not to fall down the steps and break his nose. Gary follows right behind, with a gentle hand on Stevie’s back, and they walk back into the hotel.

 

“The flight’s not until tomorrow afternoon. It’s fucking inconvenient, but it’s the soonest we can go, with the air traffic.”

 

Stevie nods and walks into his room—a single room, silence reaching for him with soft wispy fingers and tugging him towards his bed. He strips down to his briefs and socks and burrows under his covers.

 

And of course, he can’t sleep. Not after the nap on the bus. He can’t sleep, and yet he can’t move, either. His body won’t let him, sinking into the soft mattress as if it’s made of iron, as rigid and immovable as a boulder.

 

He wants to hear Jamie’s voice, suddenly. Not even that. He just wants to hear the sound of Jamie’s breathing. Hell, beggars, right? He just wants to hear _anyone’s_ breathing. The single room was meant to be a perk, given to the squad because of their good performance in the qualifiers. It feels like a punishment more than anything else, though. Here he is, condemned to loneliness.

 

There’s a knock at the door some time later. It could be minutes, or hours. Maybe it’s been decades, and Stevie’s eighty years old and done with football and maybe it feels like a relief.

 

There’s another knock, and of course he’s still a wretched thirty-four.

 

He drags himself out of bed and opens the door. Gary’s standing there, and Stevie steps back to let him in.

 

Gary’s eyes flick over him, taking in the fact that he’s not dressed, and then they look at the room, taking in the clothes, sloppily thrown into a chair for the first time since Stevie was about eleven.

 

“You missed dinner,” he says quietly, “I brought you a bit of food. Sandwich and chips, something light.”

 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” Stevie collapses back onto the bed, letting the gravity weigh him down, but for whatever reason, his body isn’t iron anymore. Something about the spell had been broken when he’d had to move and he couldn’t quite get it back.

 

“Shall we call Carra?” Gary wheedles, sitting next to him and pulling out his phone. “He’s worried about you. I’ve had about a dozen phone calls off him, demanding to talk to you.”

 

Something sits in Stevie’s throat, high and tight, something that makes it hard to swallow and makes his eyes well up a little. Oh, _Carra_. Something about him always made Stevie emotional. He’d given him permission to be that way. To be human. Jamie had given him permission to _exist_ and to take and not just give and he just—he was _worried_ about him.

 

Stevie shakes his head tightly. “Can’t talk to him,” he manages to get out, “can’t talk to him or I’ll fall apart and I won’t—he’s not here. To pull me together or hide with me.”

 

Gary’s eyes soften and he rests a hand in Stevie’s hair. The touch is surprisingly intimate, especially given who they are and their history.

 

“What do you want me to tell him? I could tell him that you’re okay, but then he’ll _know_ I’m lying and book the next flight out here.”

 

“Tell him I’ll see him at home,” Stevie says, each word pushing past the pain in his throat, “and tell him to look for somewhere to go.”

 

Gary nods and types away on his phone for a couple of minutes. He pulls and pushes and nudges Stevie’s body until he’s under the covers again. Stevie lets him manipulate his body, just lays sort of limp and lets it all happen. But that stops when Gary gets in on the other side of the bed.

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

Gary looks at him, and something shifts in the air between them. Stevie realizes suddenly that he’s hurting, too, and doesn’t do anything, just moves a little closer and lets Gary wrap an arm around him.

 

“Close your eyes, Steve. Try to get some rest for me.”

 

“I can’t.” Maybe it’s something about the softness of Gary’s t-shirt, or the solidity of his body, but Stevie’s voice thickens. “I tried. I can’t.”

 

Gary exhales slowly and starts rubbing his back gently. “Try again.”

 

“I’m done,” Stevie confesses, “I can’t do this anymore. England. I just can’t. They shouldn’t even be picking me anymore. They just have to because I’m around and I can still kick a ball a few yards.”

 

“I helped pick this squad, Steven. You got in on merit, not sentiment. You know I’m not blinded by my love for you.”

 

Stevie shrugs a little. “Just tricked a few people with pretty passes and a few decent free kicks, that’s all.”

 

Gary inches ever closer. “That’s not true. You know Carra doesn’t miss a fucking trick, he wouldn’t have fallen for it.”

 

The thought of Jamie makes Stevie’s heart squeeze painfully. “Sentiment. That’s Jamie’s weakness. Loyalty. He stays loyal. Even when people let him down. And I’ve let him down. More than once.”

 

Gary looks at him again, for a long moment of eye contact.

 

And then he kisses him.

 

Stevie leans into it. Gary Neville isn’t in love with him and probably never will be, but he’ll take any scrap of affection he can get right now.

 

 _Beggars_.

 

Gary takes the lead and Stevie lets him, lets Gary roll him onto his back and kiss him languidly, hands hot on Stevie’s shoulders and drifting down occasionally to the solid muscle of his sides.

 

“You’ve never let anyone down, Steven. Never. Least of all him.”

 

Stevie doesn’t get a chance to respond—maybe this is how Gary ensures he wins arguments, by just making out with the opposition.

 

But Gary props himself up and reaches a hand between them, fingers brushing lightly against the front of his briefs.

 

Stevie hardens beneath his touch and lifts his hips, seeking more pressure, more of that delicious friction.  
  


"I want to—I can't just keep taking without giving anything back."  
  


" _Keep_ taking? Stevie, all you do is give. Let me take care of you tonight. It'll help you sleep."  
  


Gary's eyes, they're soft and generous and he leans in again to kiss Stevie, on the neck this time.  
  


They're not in love, and in all likelihood, tomorrow will bring awkwardness and confusion, but it doesn't matter. It's easier being with Gary than it is existing in a room on his own.  
  


"I don't know if I can," Stevie confesses, "I don't know if I can make myself. It's not you, I just feel so—"  
  


"Stop thinking about it," Gary breathes, kissing him again. "Think about me. About all the things I want you to do to me tonight."  
  


Stevie's mind slips without his permission, images of Gary in lewd positions and the way it would be, and Gary pulls away briefly to take off his shirt. It's exactly what Stevie needs, the skin-to-skin contact. Gary’s been retired for a few years now, and the muscles he'd had as a player have softened, but there's beauty in that, too. It's like looking into his future, a bit, seeing what he'll look like after football spits him out in a few years.  
  


“Do you have a condom?” Gary asks softly, and Stevie nods, reaching over for his wallet and pulling out a condom. “What do you want?”  
  


“Want you to fuck me,” Stevie says instantly, “want you to fuck me hard, Gary. Please.” He wants it to hurt. He wants it to be a punishment. He can take punishment, after all. But comfort ruins him, steals his composure and refuses to give it back.

  
Gary sees it, the desire to hurt, etched in the lines around Stevie’s eyes.  
  


“Do you have lube?”  
  


Stevie stays quiet for a moment, but reaches into the nightstand and pulls some out. “Please, Gary. I can’t feel like this anymore.”  
  


Gary slides Stevie’s briefs down to his ankles, and then all the way off, and his own tracksuit bottoms and briefs follow, all the clothes laying in a pile on the floor.  
  


He opens Stevie up carefully, despite Stevie’s demands to go faster.  
  


“I can take it, please, Gary, I just _need_ —“  
  


Gary shushes him before slicking himself up and pushing into him.  
  


Stevie’s eyes close and his mouth falls open, and for a moment, Gary forgets that he’s sleeping with Steven Gerrard, possibly the second-most Scouse man alive, after Carra, mesmerized by the sensual look on his face.

 

But Stevie’s apparently _vocal_ in bed, and the low, breathy utterance of Gary’s name does things to him that it shouldn’t, along with reminding him exactly who it is he’s with. He reaches between them and strokes Stevie’s cock in rhythm with his thrusts, trying to make sure that Stevie can’t think of a single thing other than this moment, the way he feels right now, because of Gary.

 

Yet even Gary is peripheral to it, in a way. This isn’t about them so much as it is about Stevie. Gary is benefitting from it, certainly, and not just by getting off—loneliness isn’t something that gets easier with age, and spending the night with someone warm and strong and alive would help him just as much as it would Stevie. But Stevie’s the one who’s shattered again, the one who came into this tournament already reeling from the last knockout blow and managed, soul bruised and bloodied, to rise to his feet. And of course England let him down, let them both down, in the way that England did to the men who put her colors on and walked onto the green grass, equal parts proud and afraid.

 

“Harder,” Stevie demands, “I need you to fuck me harder. I can take it. I’m strong enough.”

 

Gary’s heart cracks a little at the last sentence. “I know you are, Steve. I know. You’re strong enough.” He leans down and kisses him tenderly, still moving slowly but picking up speed. Stevie stays loud, lets out low cries that suggest he couldn’t care less if his teammates heard him through the paper-thin walls.

 

Stevie comes eventually, moaning loudly, and Gary does too, shortly after, and then they just lie in bed, with their arms wrapped around each other. Gary strokes Stevie’s hair until they both drift off.

 

Gary wakes in the middle of the night, and Stevie’s still in bed next to him. He’s turned, so he’s facing away from Gary, and he’s _crying_. Quiet tears, sharp, ragged inhales and slow, controlled exhales, trying desperately not to wake Gary up.

 

Gary gathers him back into his arms and tucks Stevie’s head against his chest, and all control goes out the window. He’s still quiet, and Gary’s bare chest is growing damper every second. Eventually his breath steadies. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Gary’s chest, just above where his heart is.

 

Gary doesn’t quite know what he’s sorry for. “It’s okay, Steve. It’s going to be okay, some day.”

 

Stevie shakes his head, completely certain that it won’t be, and who the hell is Gary anyway, to tell him to get over it? He’d had _United_ , after all, he’d had trophy after trophy falling into his hands. He wasn’t exactly qualified to give advice on how it felt to miss out.

 

So he doesn’t. He just rubs Stevie’s back and rests a hand in his hair until he seems to be asleep again, and at some point Gary falls asleep, too.

 

 

 

 

The morning light is bright and harsh. Stevie looks at him uncertainly, awake before Gary, already showered and dressed, and offers him a cup of tea. He smiles weakly. “Got used to making two, I guess. Don’t know how you take it, though.”

 

Gary thanks him and sits up, letting Stevie look at his naked torso for a long, long moment before he turns away and works on his packing.

 

It’s nearly silent, for awhile, other than the sound of Gary sipping at his tea and the shuffling of Stevie’s bare feet on the thick carpet as he walks around gathering up his belongings and tucking them back into the suitcase.

 

He finishes, eventually, and Gary watches him look around for something to do and come up empty. He comes back up to him and sits on top of the covers, hesitating for a moment before he leans in and kisses Gary gently.

 

“Thank you for last night. I really needed someone to get me out of my head.”

 

Gary smiles a little and leans forward to brush his lips against Stevie’s again. He realizes with a pang that the reason he’d been so focused on Stevie was that he wanted to get out of his own head, too. Taking care of others meant that he wouldn’t have to think about himself.

 

“My pleasure, Steve. Literally.”

 

Stevie’s taken aback by the joke, but once the surprise wears off, he barks a laugh and lets himself lay back against the pillows and rest a hand on Gary’s back, testing the boundaries of this new intimacy.

 

“I think I am done, though. I’m tired. Might be time to call it, let somebody else take my spot and do better. That Dele Alli lad, if I had to put money on it.” His fingers draw light patterns across the skin of Gary’s back. A number two, followed by random circles and his surname, in block letters across the back of his shoulders.

 

“If that’s what you want, Steve.”

 

“Do you think it’d be a mistake? Retiring from international football?”

 

Gary turns to look at him, in his tight t-shirt and jeans. “I think you’ve given enough, Stevie. You’re allowed to take your life back from this if you want to.”

 

Something about the answer is unexpected—Stevie’s fingers stutter across his back before he processes the words. He sits up, then, and kisses Gary again, harder. “I can see why Carra likes you so much, Gary. You’re a good man.”

 

“I could say the same,” Gary says with a smile that promptly earns him another kiss.

 

“He likes me because I’m _me_. Because I was right there with him for all those years.” Stevie pauses and laughs a little, all fondness. “And because when we roomed together I used to do everything for him. Make the beds, unpack, make his tea. He got spoiled, the lazy bastard.”

 

“Just a few more hours and you can be with him again,” Gary offers quietly.

 

Stevie nods, staring off into the distance. “You’re welcome to have a shower in here, if you want to. Or you can head back to your room, whatever’s fine.”

 

Gary gets out of bed, intent on having a shower and flushing when he feels Stevie’s eyes watching his naked ass. “Quit ogling me, Gerrard.”

 

“Nope.”

 

After the shower Gary heads back to his own room, but just to change his clothes, and he comes back to drag Stevie down to breakfast. They head over to the airport soon after that, and when it comes time to sit down, Stevie’s assigned to sit next to Frank, but Gary says a few words to Roy in private, and when they’re boarding, his fingers wrap around Stevie’s wrist in a way that shouldn’t already be familiar, but is.

 

They sit together for the long flight home, and sometimes Stevie feels fingers intertwined with his own, or a cool hand brushing his hair back from his forehead, or that same hand adjusting his too-short blanket over his thighs and shoulders. Stevie can’t quite be sure, though. He sleeps most of the way.

 

They’re the last to get off the plane, and Stevie makes sure they’re in private before he wraps his arms around Gary and holds him close, pressing a quick kiss to his neck.

 

“Thanks for everything, Gary.” He smiles up at him, and then he’s gone, leaving Gary to follow behind.

 

Carra’s there at Heathrow, to pick him up, even though it’s all of fucking _three in the morning_ , and he waves at Gary before taking Stevie’s bag and tucking his beleaguered friend under his arm.

 

 

 

 

Steven Gerrard announces his retirement from international football the next day.

 


End file.
